


Dangerously Close to One Another

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Borderline Crackships, California, Civil War, F/M, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: Hale had never gone to Sacramento, but Sacramento had gone to him.
Relationships: Eliza Foster/Byron Hale
Comments: 14
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Until the Sun Comes Up Over Santa Monica Boulevard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22872142) by [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow). 
  * Inspired by [A Mansion House Murder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384296) by [BroadwayBaggins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayBaggins/pseuds/BroadwayBaggins), [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/pseuds/Fericita), [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray), [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch), [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow), [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells). 



Byron Hale had never gone to Sacramento, but Sacramento had gone to him. 

Upon finally reaching Drum Barracks, he had struck a fast friendship with his commander, Colonel Lee. With the numerous building projects ongoing at the site, Hale had not resisted name-dropping a certain Cameron Lumber Mill. Shortly thereafter, he had been pleased to hear that this same company had made inquiries as to their needs for lumber and workhands; _so Eliza was working her magic there, as well. A woman of many talents, indeed._

There had been one winter meeting in Denver, at the new mill acquired by Mr. Cameron, to show off the various new essences the Colorado locale provided. Miss Cameron had proven the most charming of hostesses. Although their reunion was carried out under the guise of mere acquaintances from a former life, and her attentions shared dutifully between all attendees, she had more than made up for that polite neglect in the night that followed; despite the steady snow that had fallen and the fire eventually dying out, he had never once felt the cold. 

Weeks later, they had met once more, at the Easter service at the newly consecrated Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in San José. How no one had stumbled upon them behind the penstemons during the following picnic and egg hunt was truly a miracle. 

On the Fourth of July, in the heat of Hell itself, his battalion had marched proudly in San Francisco as she’d watched the parade from the sidewalk, even going as far as waving a Union flag in perhaps reluctant support. That night, at the lavish ball held by the Civil Guard in honor of the Russian Pacific fleet, she had granted him four dances, and one more in the privacy of a darkened parlour. 

Between these, they had been numerous letters, the paper burning to be read in his pocket throughout the day: always a surprise and a delight, alternating between polite small talk, scandalous gossip, comical commentary, and sprinkled with plenty of intimate innuendos. From reading her first letter in the mess hall, surrounded by his battalion, he had learned the hard way that she was just as talented in that department with her pen as she was with her person, and that her letters would be best saved for the privacy of his quarters. 

For weeks, he had paced, planned, projected this very day, making sure every aspect would be perfect. That morning, he had woken with a flutter in his chest, a spring in his step, a tune on his lips. That afternoon, under a pleasant October sun, at last, there she was, the one handing him, on a velvet cushion, the shears with which he cut the ceremonial ribbon and declared Drum Barracks Hospital open. Her applause and visible pride made him feel to be the luckiest man west of the Mississipi. The King of California. 

A tour ensued, of which he was the eager _maître d’hôtel_. To the many visitors, Hale proudly showed off the spotless wards over the gleaming redwood floors; the apothecary with the fine, hand-worked glass cabinets, full to the brink of all possible tinctures and potions; the lavish staff offices with their mahogany desks and imposing bookcases, of many an erudite tome, and finally, the state-of –the-art operating theater. He took the greatest pleasure in displaying the new surgical tools, the massive table in the center, the mirrored chandelier above and large windows on two sides to ensure constant adequate lighting from the ever reliable California sun. 

Once all visitors had admired his new domain, they moved on, spurred by the promise of food and refreshments in the yard, until only Eliza remained. At last, he was free to openly gaze upon her, resplendent in her rose pink dress, or perhaps was it carnation? Or amaranth? A beautiful flower, in any case, touched here and there with dark blue details; the perfect complement to the sea of navy uniforms, and surely much more comfortable under the lingering summer heat than his own heavy wool jacket, now growing increasingly warmer along with the smile she no longer held in check. 

“Anywhere else striking your fancy where I may be your humble tour guide, my dear Miss Cameron?” he asked, with an obliging bow of his head. “Perhaps, after the picnic, you might care for a visit of.... the officers’ quarters?” 

“Hmmmm… I’ve seen a fair share of those. I wouldn’t mind staying here a little bit longer.” Carefully, she drew undone the perfect bow at her neck, removing her hat. 

“Here?” Hale swallowed, taking stock of all these windows, of the hundred guests right outside of them, a mere few feet below. 

She nodded, placing the discarded bonnet on a shelf, gliding towards the exit. “That handsome door does lock, doesn’t it? I made special instructions to that effect.” In one fluid, almost silent motion, the door was shut, the deadbolt, drawn, and she turned back to face him, rather pleased. “Fine craftsmanship, indeed; the carpenter shall have a nice bonus this Christmas.” 

“It’s all splendid, truly-,” he started to thank her, but she waved him off. One finger at the time, she pulled off her lace gloves, watching him follow each movement as hypnotized. 

“I also stipulated for that surgical table to be _especially_ sturdy,” she said. “Let’s see if that request has also been granted, shall we?” 

“The table,” he repeated dimly, his throat now incredibly dry, his neck unbelievably tight. 

With a final flourish, the last glove came off, and was set down next to the surgical tools. He watched her touch the surgical saw, her fingertips running along the mirrored-finished metal. “You once told me you could remove a limb in under five minutes,” she said lightly, before returning her gaze to him, a challenge if there ever was one. “Let’s see if you can remove a hoopskirt faster.” 

_That woman will be the death of me._


	2. Chapter 2

“You will be the death of me, you know?” he said afterward, tucking his shirttails into his trousers. “You’ll get me hanged or worse, court-martialled.”

“Oh, come now, Byron. Men don’t get hanged for bedding widows. Well, the white ones don’t, at least.” He glared at her, but she paid him no mind as she adjusted the cage crinoline at her waist, the drawers underneath. “You might get a six-gun escort to the closest church, but that should be the worst of it.”

Hale chuckled, but then frowned. “Widow?! But you’re using your maiden name.”

“I found it more conducive to business and integrating the respectable ladies’ circles to pass as my father’s devoted daughter-in-law, our beloved Ted falling victim to a tragic illness before the war, and us come West to escape our grief and the horrors of war.” She dropped her skirts and smoothed them elegantly. “Besides, am I truly believable as an old maid? Ha! Hardly.”

“And here I’ve been calling you Miss Cameron ever since! You should have corrected me!”

“Why would I? It adds to the mystery!” She looked at him connivingly. “Haven’t you heard all those wonderful rumors? A lost fiancé, or maybe even two, one in this war and another in the Crimean, my heart tragically broken twice over. They eat it all up! They are all hopeless romantics here. Why else would they abandon everything to set up a new life 3000 miles from everything they know, if not for the romance of a dream of utopia?

Hale groaned. “Crimea... did you have to?”

“A good story is a good story, Byron, and Miss Hastings had very many good stories. I always enjoyed her company, although you obviously did so more. Here, help me with this, would you?” she added, turning to point to the undone buttons at her back, her silky skin dispersing immediately any crawling thought of Anne and the two women’s confusing and yet unknown potential erstwhile friendship.

He obliged her, fastening each carefully, suddenly pensive. “Would it truly be the worst, though?” he asked softly, placing a softer kiss still behind her ear. “That six-gun escort to church?”

She sighed. “Byron, I’ve already been married to a military hospital; I didn’t cross this whole war-torn country to repeat that wretched experience. Besides, I'd be loath to leave Sacramento, now that all my investments in the place are just starting to pay off.” She adjusted the lace at her collar, and stepped out of his embrace.

“But what would your fine co-citizens say if they caught us?” he insisted. “Wouldn't some kind of scandal erupt?”

She scoffed and shot him an amused look over her shoulder. “Oh, sweet Dr. Hale... in over a year here, I’ve found Californians to be a greatly practical sort: as long as someone is hardworking, mindful of manners, and dedicated to improving life here, they are most welcome. Why, I have an excellent, if discrete, relationship with the madam of Sacramento’s most elegant _maison clos_ e; a shrewd businesswoman, she is also a generous donor to our charitable works – as well as to the police- and has impeccable taste in both decoration and entertainment. We have tea every Tuesday morning in her very elegant parlour, she is my best reference for all the newest Paris fashions. Of course, all the preachers and matrons coming out West are threatening this fine state of things, but as of now, I’m not particularly concerned.”

He watched her dreamily as she gazed at her reflection in the surgical mirror, replacing a golden curl here, making sure her blue topaz pendants were properly fastened at her ears; an alleged birthday present he had given her upon parting in San Francisco, although the right date remained unknown to him. She had not asked where he’d gotten them or how he could have afforded them, and he had not lied in return. How wonderful it was.

It was wonderful enough to make him ask, out of the blue: “Tell me, what is the most fashionable address, in Sacramento?”

“Why, mine, of course,” she enthused, to his enjoyment. “But the districts opening past the new California Capitol on the Avenue are promising enough to make me consider investing in real estate. One needs to stay ahead, have options.”

He pondered this, with a pensive smoothing of whiskers, as he closed the gap once more between them. “Speaking of options, what if a new doctor was to, hypothetically, come to this new Capitol District. Purchase a fine house, set up his practice downtown, donate to the best schools and charities… how would that be received by Sacramento society?”

“Well...” She ran her hand over the double row of buttons, coming to rest atop the gold oak leaf insignia at his shoulder. “I expect it would be very well received indeed; and, in this purely hypothetical scenario, I also expect it would be my duty as putative First Lady to welcome such a fine prospective citizen to our dear city.”.

“And just how welcoming would that be, exactly?” he enquired, his hands encircling her waist.

She made a show of thinking it over. “Perhaps… a neighboring seat at a town hall meeting? An accepted escort from church? A stroll along the River Parkway? The first and last dance at the Yuletide ball?”

“Sounds lovely, but not that different from what we have now. When do we get to the good part?”

She linked her arms around his neck. “This _is_ the good part, Dr. Hale. The chase, the adventure. The butterflies.”

“There will be butterflies in the garden on Capitol Avenue. Hundreds. Thousands. And in the bedroom, and the living room, and even on the dining room table if that is what it takes for you to move there. With me.”

She laughed merrily at this. “Sounds lovely,” she echoed, then sobered somewhat. “Alas, the war isn’t over.”

“But one day, it will be.”

“It will be, but your career will not, Major Hale,” She stared up at him, her blue eyes veiled. “Could you, a proud military man, from generations of proud military men, resign your commission? Just like that? For a life of medicine, public works, perhaps politics at best? Could you truly?”

“I... believe so,” he said, but neither of them was fooled.

She shook her head, a weary sigh escaping her. “Well, I do not. I don’t think you’d be happy, being a respectable yet dull physician, curing redundant ailments, with nary an amputation in sight,” she explained. “Just as I would be utterly miserable, drafted from one army barracks to the next, with no place to call my own and set down roots, as you chased the next gold bar or star upon your shoulder.”

Laid so clearly before him, the impossibility and the truth of it hit him; it was his turn to take a step back, and for the first time, he was the one to break contact. It was absolutely jarring, like an overly bitter tonic, a jump in ice-covered lake, a punch to the gut. “So... what are you saying? That this... is _it_?”

“Byron, please-”

“No! What is... _this_ , anyhow, exactly? Is this just... a game, a _passe-temps,_ for you?” The more he spoke, and heard the word out loud, the more bewildered it made him. “All these months, these meetings, _those letters_... Do you not care for me, Eliza? Are there... others? Other more eligible bachelors, up in Sacramento, that you’ve seduced with your beloved mysteries, that you entertain when best suits you, and that would not require you to sacrifice oh so much for them?”

It was her turn to be struck silent, her blue gaze fixed threateningly upon him for what felt like an eternity. “I ought to slap you."

“Fine, do so, but answer me! Are there?”

“Oh, there are...! _Many!_ ” she snarled, snatching her gloves from the table, and briskly putting them on as she marked every point. “ _Many_ more eligible men. Many more handsome, and refined, and prosperous, and not halfway to hell in bloody Santa Monica, with the daily risk of getting dispatched to fight, to be killed, be it by the Confederates, the Mexicans or the Commanches! I will be your lover, Byron, but I will not be your widow."

“Why ever not? Everything I own would be yours... I want it to be yours!” he cried, before cutting himself short with a sudden epiphany. “Or is that it? My measly pension would not be enough next to Foster’s current alimony? Or I expect it would be most unflattering to your fair complexion and your shrewd business dealings to change your pretty bright silks and jewels for crape, jet and bombazine?”

“Oh, you insufferable man! That has nothing to do with it!”

“Then... what? I know I’m a dunce, but I don’t understand you, Eliza. So please, speak plainly, spell it out: what is it you want?” It was more a plea than a question, it was the cry for air of a drowning man.

She seemed stunned by it. He watched her gather herself, draw back deep within that mind he still did not hold the key too, and that he doubted he ever could. When she finally spoke, it was with a tone he had never heard her use, almost hesitant, as if revealing a shameful secret. “I.... I don’t want to come second.”

To his perplexed silence, she collected her thoughts, her fingers worrying at the clasp at her wrist as she leaned back against the door. “I was married for a decade to a man who was married first to medicine, to research, and then to this war, and its soldiers, and eventually, its nurses. I always came second.” She paused, found him listening intently, and continued. “I waited years for him to come back from Europe, for him to propose, to set a date, his practice, our house... for children that never came. Every night, I waited for him to come home, and most, he would not, could barely bring himself to send a messenger. And when the South signed its death warrant with this foolish war, I waited for him to agree to leave it, to come away to California... and he chose the other side. The Union. Medicine _. Her_.” Before he could interject, she waved him off. “And I’m most glad of it. Truly. It was the rough awakening I needed after a decade of slumber. Now, I’m done waiting for happiness, for purpose, to be dependent on men. To speak plainly... I won’t wait for you, Byron Hale.”

“Goddamnit, Eliza...” In three strides, he was in front of her, his hands reaching to clasp hers firmly. “How can you think I’d be anything like that fool? Do you not see how helpless I am with you? How absolutely besotted you have me? They’d have to send a messenger to drag me _away_ from you, never the other way around.”

She could not bring herself to raise her eyes. “Maybe now you are, but after months, years of domesticity, would you still be? And here is my failure, because I care enough for you that I cannot have it be so. What if this is the only way we can make each other happy, this illicit, exciting tryst, while we chase our own ambitions? That everything that may come afterwards can only be disappointment and bitterness and resentment for what we might have achieved, had we put ourselves first?”

“I refuse to believe that. Just think of what we may achieve together,” he pressed, risking a hand to her neck, a thumb grazing her cheek, and she did not push it away. “There are other options for us in the world than Sacramento or Drum Barracks. The Army has stable postings, officer desk jobs, far from combat duty, and if I do well here during the war, as a major with a good record, I would get proper recommendations for them. And I would like them a hundred times more than any blasted barrack, if I had you to come home to every night. So let me tell you what _I_ want: I want you to choose that posting. The position, the place, it’s all yours to decide. I will even trek back across on the cursed Overland if you choose New York or Philadelphia, I'll brave the cold up in Chicago or alligators down in Florida. Wherever you decide, I will go, and we will build our life there together. So for now, stay in Sacramento with your father, continue with those bustling ambitions of yours, but be warned I’ll write often, asking for advice, for our next much desired _rendez-vous_ , and for your hand, and I won’t stop until you say yes.”

Only then did she look at him, a soft smile on lips, that she transferred to his with as soft a kiss. “Never mind all that for now. Let us have today, and tonight, and tomorrow."

“Is it because I haven’t knelt? I’ll kneel-” and he moved to do so, before she laughed and grabbed onto his arms to pull him back up. “No! No kneeling... unless it was to do that thing you did in San José.”

He mirrored her laugh, and stole another kiss through it. “I think we’re quite late enough to the picnic for that, my dear... but I promise to oblige you later. And that, in this as in everything else, you will always come first.”

**Author's Note:**

> It wouldn’t be an Haliza fic if there wasn’t some borderline cringe-worthy innuendo. I debated (waaaaay too much) whether these two could actually work and found that no, not in their current situations; so this goes halfway to bridge the gap to where they end up in "Mansion House Murder Mystery". I'll probably write the third, post-Selma, post-pirate-creating-artillery-blast edition at some point (but I expect tags will be coming my way soon so I'll treat those first!)
> 
> I made a giant lie, because the truth is hella stupid: "Lumber was cut in New England for the buildings of the Drum Barracks, shipped around the Horn, and arrived in 1862. Its estimated cost is 1 million dollars; the buildings were completed in September 1863"  
> http://www.drumbarracks.org/index.php/en/using-joomla/extensions/components/content-component/article-categories/78-icetheme/icetabs/100-welcome-to-drum-barracks 
> 
> More lies: the Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in San José was indeed completed in 1863 but only consecrated four years later. So probably no sexy egg hunts in '63 but there were no large churches proper otherwise to consider. 
> 
> Not lies: There actually was a military event for the Russian Pacific Fleet in San Francisco. Russia sent ships there and in New York in support of the Union. http://people.loyno.edu/~history/journal/1983-4/delehaye.htm So Trump wasn’t the only president pandering to them. 
> 
> I actually googled a bunch of derivatives on the “sex in hoopskirt” formula (my browser history is a riot). So although Eliza makes a fancy challenge out of it, you probably don’t need to remove a hoopskirt, drawers were split for easy access to a toilet or... else (and I actually gave up on trying to figure out if that was even possible to remove the cage without removing everything over it, so forgive me that lack of diligence). Just seems to me like an awful lot of fabric and cages in the way. But hey, I'm sure quickies were a fact of life even in the Victorian era; you gotta do what you gotta do with the time you've got.
> 
> Title also from Sheryl Crow.


End file.
